#Jacobean Age

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Shakespeare's Globe Theatre.

The story of Globe Theatre started with William Shakespeare's acting company, Lord Chamberlain's Men.

William Shakespeare (baptized 26 April 1564 – 23 April 1616) was a part-owner or sharer in the company, as well as an actor and resident playwright.

From its inception in 1594 AD, Lord Chamberlain's Men performed at Theatre, a playhouse located in Shoreditch.

However, by 1598, their patrons, including Earl of Southampton, had fallen out of favour with the Queen.

Theatre's landlord, Giles Alleyn, had intentions to cancel the company's lease and tear the building down.

While Alleyn did own the land, he did not own the materials with which the theatre had been built.

So, on 28 December 1598, after leasing a new site in Southwark, Cuthbert and Richard Burbage led the rest of the company of actors, sharers, and volunteers in taking the building down, timber by timber, loading it on to barges, and making their way across Thames.

Working together, the actors built the new theatre as quickly as they could.

The ground on the new site was marshy and prone to flooding, but foundations were built by digging trenches, filling them with limestone, constructing brick walls above stone, and then raising wooden beams on top of that.

A funnel caught rainwater and drained it into ditch surrounding the theatre and down into Thames.

The theatre was 30m in diameter and had 20 sides, giving it its perceived circular shape. 

Structure was similar to that of their old theatre, as well as that of the neighbouring bear garden.

The rectangular stage, at 5ft high, projected halfway into the yard and circular galleries.

Pillars were painted to look like Italian marble, sky painted midnight blue, and images of gods overlooked balcony. It could hold up to 3,000 people.

By May 1599, the new theatre was ready to be opened.

Burbage named it Globe after the figure of Hercules carrying the globe on his back — for in like manner, the actors carried Globe's framework on their backs across Thames.

A flag of Hercules with globe was raised above theatre with Latin motto: 'totus mundus agit histrionem' ('all the world's a playhouse'). 

Shakespeare's plays that were performed there early on included: 

Henry V, Julius Caesar, As You Like It, Hamlet, Measure for Measure, Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, and Antony and Cleopatra.

Here, the Lord Chamberlain's Men enjoyed much success and gained the patronage of King James I in 1603, subsequently becoming The King's Men.

During a fateful performance of Henry VIII on 29 June 1613, a cannon announcing the unexpected arrival of the king at the end of Act 1 set fire to the thatched roof, and within an hour, the Globe burned to ground.

Everyone escaped safely, save for one man whose breeches reportedly caught fire. Two different songs had been written about it by the next day.

Globe was rebuilt by February 1614. The company could then afford to decorate it extravagantly, and it had a tiled roof instead of thatched.

However, by this point, Shakespeare's influence had lessened. He was spending more and more time back in Stratford-upon-Avon.

Disaster struck again in 1642 when the Parliament ordered the closure of London theatres.

In 1644-45, Globe was destroyed and the land sold for building.

In 1970, American actor and director, Samuel Wanamaker CBE (born Wattenmacker; 14 June 1919 – 18 December 1993), set up the Shakespeare's Globe Trust to pursue his dream of reconstructing the original Globe Theatre.

For what would be almost the next 30 years, he and his team worked and fought to obtain the permissions, funds, and research necessary for a project of this scope. 

Historians, scholars and architects all worked together in their efforts to build the Globe in the same way Lord Chamberlain's Men did, down to the green oak pillars and thatched roof.

Their work and dreams were fulfilled when the new Globe Theatre opened in 1997, one street away from where original stood.

Globe stands today as a living monument to Shakespeare, greatest English playwright, home to productions of his plays and many other new ones every season.

[dwellordream]

Historical Costumes of England from the Eleventh to the Seventeenth Century

- Nancy Bradfield, 1963

[pintsofguinnesmakeyoustrong]

god i absolutely hate when characters in period dramas have perfect hair and flawless skin and white teeth and a full face of makeup at all times like bitch it is 1789 there is no maybelline only consumption

[marzipanandminutiae]

I love your poll about the house museums, i have been to many because it was an interest of my mother's growing up. I wanted to share about tour-able mansions in Rhode Island, USA. They are full of history and feel incredibly haunted.

Oh, in Newport? Yeah, those are really cool!

They were summer homes for the hyper-wealthy of (mostly) New York City, and really functioned more as event venues than family houses. The scale and grandeur of most of them boggles the mind:

(The Breakers, built in 1893-95 for the Vanderbilt family. This is the grandest of them all, but the one I've visited- Rosecliff -wasn't far behind.)

One of my friends used to work at the mansions- one organization runs all of them, as museums -and she says some are haunted. I'm not going to tell you which ones, though; that seems like it would spoil the fun.

Happy touring!

[nostalgia-tblr]

Thor: Ragnarok is the best Thor movie and you can tell because nobody ever tries to make a desperate claim for prestige and reflected quality by calling it "Shakespearean," they just say they enjoyed it and they liked the jokes.

[yama-bato]

The Weiss Gallery

· This exquisite detail is taken from a portrait by Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger, who is rightly regarded as one of the most important portrait painters working in the royal courts of Elizabeth I and James I. His iconic portraits defined the public image of many of the leading figures of his age and the sitter of our painting would certainly have held a prominent role within the Jacobean court.

[rherlotshadow]

Foxley Church - one of the few churches in the country with an unknown dedication - and the usual patched history of building and adding. Probably 12th century origin, the north aisle extended in the later Middle Ages, a 17th century tower, an 18th century porch and doorway, Jacobean communion rail, an early 20th century restoration, a gorgeous Art Nouveau stained glass window. Out in the countryside, ancient and silent.

[haveyouplayedthisttrpg]

Have you played DAEMONOLOGIE?

By Six Planes Game

Daemonologie is a dark fantasy NSR (New School Revolution) game set in the age of hysterical witch hunts in Jacobean England. Players take the role of members of a secret inquisition outside of the jurisdiction of the Crown, racing against the rising public fear to catch the servants of the Devil before the King's forces start executing the innocent.

[labuenosairesfrancaise]

Wollaton Hall, Nottingham

Hi guys!!

I'm sharing Wollaton Hall. This is the 7th building for my English Manors Collection, and I will add many more!

House History: Wollaton Hall was built between 1580 and 1588 for Sir Francis Willoughby and is believed to be designed by the Elizabethan architect, Robert Smythson, who had by then completed Longleat, and was to go on to design Hardwick Hall. The general plan of Wollaton is comparable to these, and was widely adopted for other houses, but the exuberant decoration of Wollaton is distinctive, and it is possible that Willoughby played some part in creating it. The style is an advanced Elizabethan with early Jacobean elements.

Wollaton is a classic prodigy house, "the architectural sensation of its age", though its builder was not a leading courtier and its construction stretched the resources he mainly obtained from coalmining; the original family home was at the bottom of the hill. Though much re-modelled inside, the "startlingly bold" exterior remains largely intact.

The house was unused for about four decades before 1687, following a fire in 1642, and then re-occupied and given the first of several campaigns of re-modelling of the interiors.

The hall remains essentially in its original Elizabethan state, with a "fake hammerbeam" wood ceiling of the 1580s, in fact supported by horizontal beams above, but given large and un-needed hammerbeams for decoration.

In 1881, the house was still owned by the head of the Willoughby family, Digby Willoughby, 9th Baron Middleton, but by then it was "too near the smoke and busy activity of a large manufacturing town... now only removed from the borough by a narrow slip of country", so that the previous head of the family, Henry Willoughby, 8th Baron Middleton, had begun to let the house to tenants and in 1881 it was vacant.

The hall was bought by Nottingham Council in 1925. Estate and personal papers of the Willoughby family were used to create the Middleton collection at the department of Manuscripts and Special Collections, The University of Nottingham. They include the Wollaton Antiphonal and the single manuscript holding the 13th-century post-Arthurian romance Le Roman de Silence.

Nottingham Council opened the hall as a museum in 1926. In 2005 it was closed for a two-year refurbishment and re-opened in April 2007.

More history: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wollaton_Hall

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This house fits a 50x50 lot and features a great room, a formal dining room and a daily breakfast room, a great library, his and hers bedrooms, 2 royal bedrooms with their formal sitting rooms.

This time I decorated most of the rooms for picture purposes, but as allways, you can make it your own!

Hope you like it.

Be warned: I did not have the floor plan for the 2nd floor. The distribution is based on my own decision.

You will need the usual CC I use: all of Felixandre, The Jim, SYB, Anachrosims, Regal Sims, TGS, The Golden Sanctuary, Cliffou, Dndr recolors, etc.

Please enjoy, comment if you like it and share pictures with me if you use my creations!

Early access: August 15.

DOWNLOAD: https://www.patreon.com/posts/103223415?pr=true

[titleleaf]

I’ve wanted to watch more Roger Corman films for a long time — he’s been a pivotal force in the careers of a lot of directors whose works I enjoy and his impact on some of my favorite silly horror tropes is off the charts — but tonight we did a questionable thematic double feature of Corman’s Masque Of The Red Death (1964) with Visconti’s Death In Venice (1971) and hoo boy… my Vincent Price thirst… is strong…

Some thoughts:

- It’s a delight to have an adaptation that engages with Poe’s use of color and the color palettes of all that highly saturated, artificial, Star Trek TOS-looking costuming is a pleasure after “the Middle Ages were brown and gray” has been the norm for so many years now. The presence of the Red Death is undercut by the liberal use of red in the courtiers’ costuming but the costume/character design fucking rules.

- On the flipside, every single one of these costumes could be dated like a tree trunk slice; they are pure 1964 and they look like if you held a match up to them they’d melt. I would loved to have seen more Bogus Renaissance Italy vibes rather than Bogus Generic Medieval but I get that they were working with what they were working with.

- If I saw this movie in 1964 as a teenager it would have blown my tits right off. Arch, sexy, incredibly nasty Prince Prospero low key holds a virtuous peasant girl hostage in exchange for sparing the lives of her lover AND her father, then proceeds to attempt to seduce her into his philosophy of cynicism, skepticism regarding organized religion, and also Satanism, while his clearly pretty lonesome consort is off doing her own thing with Satan and they have a truly bonkers triangulation with exquisite wife-mistress femslash potential and also there’s a lot of evil bathing and evil dressing??? Also there’s a pretty loosey-goosey adaptation of Hop-Frog but I don’t give a fuck, Hop-Frog (excuse me, Hop-Toad for some reason in this) is my favorite figure from Poe and while the ending of the film is a bit Hays Code-y (just too many people being spared!) him and his lady love getting away clean is always a lovely element. (Even if the choice to cast him with an actual adult little person actor who’s appropriately super charming and scheming and her as an ADR’ed child is: super super weird. It was the 60s, I guess.)

- @allthestoriescantbelies pointed out to me that Jane Asher is also the protagonist of The Stone Tape and damn, girl cannot catch a gothic break, no matter what era she’s in. She’s lovely in this.

- I want to show this movie on repeat to all historical costume accuracy discoursers.

- I also want a bunch of Jacobean revenge tragedies costumed exactly like this. In some alternate reality where all the incest wouldn’t be a dealbreaker I think Corman could have cleaned the fuck up adapting Webster and Middleton and whatnot. Hell, do Corman’s Hamlet.

- All the courtiers’ debauchery is pretty tame at first — they canoodle fully clothed, impersonate animals, and drink a lot of wine — but when that finale hits, it really hits.

In conclusion I feel like this film gave me an injection of vital villain/heroine essence directly to the bloodstream.

[fanaticalfantasist]

The Duchess - Proglogue

A/N: So a while ago I wrote a story called 'The Duchess' but took it down becuase I wasn't happy with it. So I'm trying again! I hope you like it, please let me know. Any feed back is very welcome.

If the society in London was built upon one foundation it would be gossip. It thrived on any drop of a silacious tale that it could seek out and before long it would flood throughout the ton. This was espcially true when it come to the aristocracy, their friendships, romances, meetings, really any and every part of their lives could fuel the ton for a moth, anything to enrich their otherwise mundane lives.

The obession which had topped all else, well before the arrival of Lady Whistledown, was the lives of the Wyndham family, the single most powerful and oldest family in England, the holders of the Dukedoms of Norfolk. A title the family had held since the reign of William I, and such was their influence they had ben involved in almost all important events of the countries history, and in fact had more right to the throne of England than the curret royal family did. This fact alone made them even more intriguing to the public at large. This was particulary true of the latest generation of the family.

Edward Francis Henry William Wyndham, the 14th Duke of Norfolk, had inherited his title at the age of 12 and had been from that moment on the perfect model of a Duke. He'd was nothing less than kindness to his tenants, caring for their needs and ensuring they had what they needed to live, from building walls on farms to funding the education of local children. It all amounted to the impression that he was the model gentlemen. But when it came to his marriage, this was where the scandel lay.

Edward had been engaged to a detestable woman named Lady Dorothea Griffiths, she was the daughter of a wealthy landowner in Wales. Anyone who had met her came to the same conclusion that she was one of the most selfish women they'd ever met, only caring about her appearance and the prospect of being extremely wealthy. When the engagement became know it raised a lot of eyebrows, no one could understand why the Duke had chosen this particular young lady as his bride. In fact, the marriage had been proposed while the Duke had been under the guardianship of his late grandmother, a cautious woman who cared little for her grandson but cared deeply about the continued legacy of her family name. Within a year of his grandmother's death the Duke called off the wedding, leading to Lady Griffith's father to publically state he'd ben jilted by the Duke. However as there was no legal agreement made the Duke came away from it free from a potetially horrific marirage. This alone was scandalous enough, but it wasn't until three years later that the true scandal broke when the Duke married Miss Louisa Beaumont.

Miss Beaumont was the daughter of a local farmer, and had grown up with very little. However she was beautiful, kind, funny and very intelligent, though many disagreed with the marriage due to their class differences the whole of the ton agreed she was the perfect Duchess. The happiness that the couple felt outweighed the scandal or any looks given to them by on lookers. In fact they gave up their home in London permanently in favour of their home in the countryside, a few miles from where Miss Beaumont had grown up.

The couple turned their Jacobean home into their own paradise, only allowing those in who they trusted the most. Their happiness was only added too by the birth of their daughter, and only child, two years into their marriage. Lady Juliet Charlotte Henrietta Sophia Wynham, was deemed by all who met the child to be the perfect mix of her parents. Even though in the years that followed the couple were not blessed with anymore children, they where still pleased with their daughter. The little girl was set to be the holder of the most powerful title in England, the first woman who would every hodl the title. Unfortanetly this title would be hers sooner than anyone would have liked.

The tradgedies of the Wyndham family was yet another topic that was beloved amongst the gossip lovers of the ton, because for a family that was so full of love and power they had suffered much. The series of unfortunate events began when Juliet was three years old.

It was a beautiful summer that year, with large blue skies and beautiful green gardens to play in. The Wyndham's had invited some of their closest friends to come and spend the summer with them, and as they sat by the spralling lake enjoying the beautiful day it would've been inconceviable to them that any tragedy was looming over them waiting to pounce.

One of those in attendence was the Bridgerton family, the Viscount Edmund Bridgerton and the Duke had been school friends and remained close well into their respective adulthoods and marriages. The bond between them only intesified as they became fathers, wising their children would remain close friends, which had become true. So that day there was nothing unsusual about the Anthony, Benedict and Juliet playing together. As they went on the children got closer to the lake, watching from a dock as the fish and ducks ate the food they threw. Honestly no one was sure of what exactly happened that day that led the young Juliet to fall into the deep depths of the lake, but she did.

Her father being a strong athletic man, rushed forwared and dived in, searching for his precsious daughter. After pulling her free from the dark depths of water and into the arms of his friend the duke was suddenly pulled under again. His foot being caught and before Edmund could reach him the Duke had drowned.

Quickly gossip made its way from Norfolk to London, people speculating the Duke had been murdered or killed himself. No one was sure what had happened, except the people in attendance who did not talk of it. But the most interesting element of the whole affair to the ton was the late Duke's will. He'd spent months ensuring it was loop hole free, and it caused a lot of raised eyebrows when its contents was made known. Upon the Duke's death his daughter would become the Duchess of Norfolk and inherity her full fortune without any delay, but she'd also have dull control over her destiny and that of her lands. She'd have two guardians to guide her through this process Viscount Edmund Bridgerton and Lady Danbury. She was also, and the will was very clear on this, to be educated to the same level of as man in her position and most importantly, or at least to the ton, she'd be fully in control of her future marriage. The will stated that she and only she coudl choose who she married, ensuring that she'd marry for love just like her parets had. It also added that her future husband wouldn't not have a right to her title, fortune or lands. It rocked society, with people trying to claim the Duke was mad or had been manipulated into making such a unique will. But having been represented by Sir Richard Grenville, the most respected lawyer in England it was clear that this was not the case.

Once the funeral was over and the house fell into perpetual morning, under the direction of the Dowager Duchess, it seemed that the Wyndham family would be at peace for a while. However this was to be proved wrong.

When the Duchess was seven years old she awoke and made her way to her mother's room, as she did every day. They'd sit together and read before they rose to have breakfast. Her mother would tell stories of the late Duke and the little girl loved it. But that morning she was prevented from entering her mothrs room by the family butler Mr Browning. See that morning when the Dowager Duchess's ladies maid had enterted to wake her she'd found her mistressres dead. At some point in the night, grief still consuming her, the Dowager had taken her life.

The young Duchess was seen for the last time by the public as she stood by her parents grave. Dressed in black from head to toe, her face covered by a veil as she wept. At her shoulders stood Viscount Bridgerton and Lady Danbury, both devistated for the young girl and concered for her future. The Duchess made a choice that day, after hearing gossip during the funeral, that she would have nothing to do with London society until she was ready to conquer it.

As such she retired to her home, Felbrigg Hall, only excepting guests who had been close to her parents. She was the most powerful woman in England, and she knew from a young age she needed to learn all she could. Hours were spent in the library with the finest tutors in Europe, she could do anything a male heir would be able. Lady Danbury ensured her charage was kept as accomplished as possible, with dancing, ettiquette and music lessons being drilled into the young Duchess. And it was through Lady Danbury that the young Duchess made her one and only true friend Simon Basset.

And thus life was good, but in her mind she knew she’d have to enter society one day. And on that day she's conquer it.

[luverofralts]

Arkhelios Adventures

After spending months at Shadowvale, learning to control his abilities, Theo was desperate for some fun. The closest thing to fun he could find was painting on the school supplied easel in his quarters. With no modern technology to distract him, Theo was becoming quite the artist. It gave him something to update his parents on at least during their weekly video call. He'd shown his fathers a recent painting and Abe had nearly teared up with pride. He'd let his own artistic skills lapse over the years, but he promised to collaborate with his son when he finally came home. Of course, as usual, Theo's parents knew next to nothing about Adam to pass along to him. Evren had talked at length with Adam's father and had only returned with "He's doing a lot better" and "his friend from Crystal Cove has been visiting quite often".

Theo didn't know which friend was spending time with Adam, as there were several Crystal Cove apprentices who regularly texted with his boyfriend. It was great to hear that Adam was doing better than before, but Theo was still in the dark about what he was recovering from. It was tearing him up inside, trying to guess what was going on with Adam and all of their friends in Pleasantview. They were all living their lives together, while Theo was stuck in the middle of nowhere with only a paintbrush to keep him company. He still hadn't made any friends at the school, which wasn't a surprise since he saw other students so infrequently. Whenever he had a rare lesson with other students, Theo's attempts to socialize were met with hostility or indifference. If he had to spend another semester or god forbid, another year at Shadowvale, Theo was going to scream.

Apparently, after the long months he had been here, Theo had earned a small reward. Once every two weeks, he would be permitted to leave the campus and explore the country that housed the school. He would have magical restrictions of course, and be shadowed by school security, but finally, he was granted a small taste of freedom.

His first outing was to the local movie theater, as the school security team deemed it an easy place to control any deviation from their plans.

Theo hadn't been to a movie theater in ages, not since Adam had dragged him to see their classmate Devard's mother's new film. The movie itself had been boring, but all the kissing during the slow parts had been worth it. It didn't matter what movie was playing, so long as Theo wasn't at school.

Theo took his seat in the theater and watched curiously as people trickled in to see the show.

He had been given very strict rules of conduct that would likely affect his hope of future outings if he disobeyed them. Shadowvale was a rare and mysterious school in a region that was shielded from the outside world. He had needed the staff to open a portal to campus in the first place, as regular teleportation was impossible from the outside world.

Theo was advised not to reveal that he had two biological fathers or a boyfriend waiting for him at home, as most of the society near the school was extremely "traditional" whatever that meant. He should certainly not admit to being a demon in certain circles as well. There were reasons for how difficult it was to be admitted to Shadowvale. There were signs praising the Watcher everywhere as well as the Leader. If Adam sometimes thought Arkhelios was a weird place to live, he'd be stunned by Shadowvale's realm.

The movie itself was boring. The plot circled around a "Maiden of Jacob" and her intense desire to sacrifice herself for the good of the Jacobean population. Everyone else in the audience had cheered at the end of the movie, while Theo was still confused about the plot. Every character died in the end, save the Jacobean Proxy, yet people were cheering like it ended happily.

Theo wasn't permitted to walk back to campus and couldn't summon any demonic magic in this strange place, so he was forced to wait for his campus "wellness" team to come return him to school. While Theo waited impatiently to return to his imprisonment, another teen sat on the couch beside him and smiled.

"I haven't seen you around here before," the teen said warmly. "There aren't very many new people my age around here."

"I go to Shadowvale," Theo replied cautiously. Getting into a conversation meant that he might slip up and mention the forbidden topics, making his life misery when he returned to school. "This is my first trip off campus."

"Ah, the school of dark magic. A family friend goes there. Do you know Torkel?"

Theo shook his head.

"It doesn't sound familiar, but I haven't met anyone really in class. I barely see the other students."

"Our family is the opposite alignment. We don't go to Shadowvale. I've always been curious about it though."

"I really don't think I'm allowed to talk about it," Theo confessed. "They're pretty strict and I'd like to keep earning time away from that place."

"Of course, I'm sorry," the teen apologized. "That sounds about right for Shadowvale. I don't want to get you in trouble or anything. I'm Brion, by the way. Brion Pryor."

"Theo. Theo Bellamy."

The two boys formally shook hands.

"Do you want to come over sometime or hang out if you're free?" Brion asked. "We don't see many new teens come here. Having a Shadowvale student over may raise the opinion of my family among the good witches. Outreach to the fallen and all that."

"Yeah, I'll ask my 'team' if I'm allowed," Theo sighed. "Anything is better than homework or staring at the same four walls of my room all night."

"Speaking of, it looks like your ride home is here," Brion laughed, pointing to the two witches who looked more like soldiers than teachers, scanning the room for Theo.

"Yep, that would be them," Theo sighed. "I'd tell you to text me, but we're not allowed to use phones. So call the school about hanging out maybe? It was nice meeting you."

The night had been a strange success for the demon hybrid. He saw a bit of the world outside of Shadowvale, realized that foreign movies were weird and maybe made a friend. It wasn't Pleasantview, but this was probably the most fun Theo had had in months.

[antaxzantax]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 49

Summary: Alfred Ashford starts secondary school. Alexia Ashford receives psychiatric treatment after attacking her psychologist. Alexander Ashford reveals the CODE: Veronica project to his mother.

I

The pinnacle towered above a complex of stone and brick encircled by a high, thick stone wall. The wall bordered the only road connecting the estate to the London suburbs. A bronze plaque embedded in the stone announced the entrance to King Jacob II College.

Elizabeth bade him farewell on the threshold of the main building. Ailing with age, she barely leaned back to kiss Alfred on the cheek and had to leave after greeting headmaster Leslie Campbell and housemaster James McNamara-Douglas, both members of Jacob's Circle and attached to the respective clans. From that moment on, both men would be responsible for Alfred's care and education for the next five years.

The headmaster led him to his office to explain the social and educational dynamics of the institution. Alfred, now dressed in his frock coat and stiff collar, carried his bulky leather suitcase without complaint and with the housemaster on his back. King Jacob II College, the headmaster began, was part of the Jacobean educational project designed by Veronica Ashford and Rupert Campbell to ensure the political and economic influence of the remnant Stuart lineages in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and imperial possessions. King Jacob II was founded in the late 19th century as the boys' boarding school for the recruitment of the English and foreign elite concentrated in London. At the same time, Queen Anne College was erected as its female counterpart. Due to the success of the project, King Charles I and Queen Mary I colleges were opened in Edinburgh for the Scottish and Irish elite. Because of the geographical division, the funding and governance of the Scottish boarding schools remained in the hands of the Campbells, while the Ashfords took over the governance of the English pair. This separation also had to be respected by the families, which is why Alfred was compulsorily transferred to King Jacob II after preparatory school. And, unsurprisingly, the administration of the four schools rested exclusively with Jacob's Circle. There was no one, not one teacher, who was not an associate or member of the Circle. On the contrary, most of the student body came from a diversity of social and cultural backgrounds, with a handful of foreigners, and a small Jacobin minority. This Jacobin minority was concentrated in King's House, and it was these boys who always served as prefects. Alfred would be housed in a single dormitory in King's House, where he would share residence and communal life with thirty other boys. Finally, because he was Ashford, custom dictated that he was entitled to a couple of exclusive dormitory privileges. Alfred chose a television with VHS and the Atari 2600. He would get the movies and video games.

The course began with the one hundred and fifty students gathering in the auditorium to listen to the headmaster's speech. A giant painting of Veronica Ashford and another of Rupert Campbell hung on the wall, and Alfred felt the pressure. He broke out in a sweat and disguised the movement of his nervous hands by pretending to adjust his trousers. The painting of Veronica Ashford anticipated reading the biography of illustrious pupils like his great-great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather and grandfather, who contributed so much to the civilisational development of Britain. And, ultimately, in an adjoining room for the assembly of the student body with the faculty and school authorities, Alfred read the name inscribed on the wooden panels of Stanley Ashford, Thomas Ashford, Arthur Ashford, Edward Ashford, and Alexander Ashford. His name would be engraved after his father's just as his future son's name would be placed after his own. Alfred felt a knot in his stomach. Victory or death.

As in prep school, a first week of grace was granted for the freshmen to settle in. However, the week took an unexpected turn when the group of five prefects from his house bowed to him and invited him to join their group. Alfred accepted without a second thought. The prefects passed his test on his knowledge of the school and the staff and promised him their selfless protection. Alfred heartily welcomed the initiative as a qualitative improvement on his bitter and lonely experience at Watford. However, he soon discovered that his relationship with the gang was not peer-to-peer, but primus inter pares. He discovered this when Roderick, one of the five boys, brought him another boy to be his fag. Technically, the school had banned fagging last year, but Alfred could enjoy the approval of the prefects to dispose of one secretly. He ordered the boy called Henry to take care of the cleaning of his dormitory and to serve him tea for nothing, because it was Roderick who managed this service. In this way, no one disturbed him with trifles. But there was a second matter. An unexpected and disturbing fact that captured Alfred's imagination and all his attention.

The punishments. A month after the first day of school, Harvey, another prefect, invited him to come to the garret of the house. Alfred followed Harvey to the trapdoor. Before opening the lid, he held out a black Halloween mask simulating a rabbit's head to Alfred.

“Put it on.”

In the garret there were three children, two thirteen years old and one fourteen. The children were frightened by the sight of the monstrous rabbit. The five prefects rounded them up in a circle, and one of them asked the rabbit:

“How do we punish them?”

The rabbit called to one of the prefects to whisper the verdict in his ear. The prefect understood the rabbit's words and carried out his will. Three prefects held the victims while the other two wielded belts.

They knew where and how to strike so as not to leave marks or draw blood. Harvey put the rabbit mask in a hidden box and congratulated the prince on his creativity.

“See you next time.”

At first, he distracted himself by daydreaming and sketching children and prefects in a notebook. One of the teachers caught him but ignored the scene Alfred had drawn: a detailed and realistic depiction of the five prefects beating the three boys with their belts. He got bored with the belts and reimagined the scene from other angles and with other tools. First, he designed simple tools such as scissors, pruning shears, sticks and ropes. Secondly, he traced the shape of bladed weapons and instruments of torture such as the iron lady. And thirdly, he included new victims in the scene. He secretly made a quick sketch of his classmates and housemates and then introduced them into the scene, which constantly changed location and furnishings. In a catacomb, in his room at Ashford Hall, in a cemetery, in a shopping centre or in a laboratory with the Umbrella logo printed on the wall. As the number of locations and their difficulty increased, so did the definition of the bodies, their postures and expressions. He wanted it to be realistic and so he signed up for painting classes instead of marching with the cadets[1]. The painting classes improved his skill, as well as supplanting his abstinence for punishment. He once painted a picture in which he framed the reason he clung to the memory of the first punishment: power of influence, desire for importance and, above all, mitigation of emotional emptiness. The positive emotions of the punishment outweighed the negative emotions of family abandonment and parental absence. If he thought about the punishment, he forgot about other thoughts such as whether his father loved him or whether he was disappointed in him. Alfred wanted to prove his worth to him, but locked up in the boarding school he could think of no way to prove his manhood to him other than by wearing a kilt and killing Englishmen. Fortunately, the anguish didn't last more than two months. Harvey reappeared in his room with the rabbit mask stuffed in a sports bag.

“Let's go.”

Under his guidance, the punishments increased in variety, but habit drove him to seek more and be more reckless. To his face, he insulted fellow housemates for being lower class, was racist towards the only pair of Indians in King's House, beat up a middle-class boy who got too smart with the Stuart, shoved a boy's head down the toilet and forced a pair of freshmen to skinny-dip in the stream that ran through the estate. They lashed out with conservative slogans at the only leftist in the building while burning a picture of Fidel Castro with a lighter. At this point, Alfred's existence was limited to studying and inventing new outrages with which to reaffirm his status and evade the uncomfortable questions raised by the emotional void. A reign of terror in which he gave free rein to his limitless brutality.

In December 1982 Alfred made out with Henry. He had masturbated to a porn magazine that Roderick had smuggled into the study room he shared with him and Harvey. There weren't any girls at his school, so he went to try whoever was closest to hand. The two kissed roughly out of inexperience and without excitement on Alfred's part. In any case, Henry's warmth did him good and he threatened his subordinate to keep their relationship a secret.

“You're an asshole,” Henry replied.

In January 1983 Alfred showed up at the headmaster's office. He left with two letters and a reprimand for having been caught smuggling in a couple of VHS movies and a video game. He had to be subtle if he didn't want to lose his privileges. The Exorcist and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. He watched them with Henry and loved them. Unfortunately, Henry was a lout with Atari’s Adventure.

The first letter was signed by his grandmother. She wrote that his father and sister were well in Antarctica and that she missed him very much. She wanted to hug her grandson again and go on a picnic with him. The second letter was signed George Frederick Benjamin Stanley Owen Ashford-Campbell-Douglas-Stuart from the Soviet Union. He knew who he was: his grandfather's younger brother Edward Ashford. Spurred by morbidity and surprise, he read the second letter.

II

Dear Alfred,

Perhaps you know who I am. We have never met in person, and never will, though you may have seen me in some picture my father forgot to tear up or burn. I will be brief and to the point. I am your great-uncle George and I feel an obligation to warn you about our family and about your future. What you do with this warning, and even with this letter, I leave up to you, but I want to tell you in writing what I know and have experienced.

You were born in 1971, three years after my older brother's death and more than ten years after my father's death. I imagine that Alexander must have spoken highly of both of them, as it is a moral imperative for a son to speak well of his father and grandfather, who nurtured and educated him. But my father and brother were not good people. They pretended to be, but inside them there was always an unparalleled penchant for contempt for human life. However, it is unfair to blame only the two of them. After all, we all share origin and responsibility for the lifestyle that our great-great-grandmother Veronica adopted and that we have uncritically cultivated because, as has already become evident, class, status and privilege suffocate the heart of humanity. Veronica and Rupert were no exception.

Do you know what lurks beneath the factory floors that Veronica ruled with an iron fist? But what can I tell you about her that you don't already know? A prodigy daughter of capital and empire. Thief, traitor and genocidal, just like her brother Rupert. Out of cowardice I missed my only chance to cremate her remains. Given her background, it did not strike me as odd that her only offspring, Stanley, was a friend of Aleister Crowley. I recall that in his later years he believed he was a messenger of Lucifer. He made Ouija boards to communicate with his mother's mummy and spent a fortune acquiring a huge secret collection of books, statuettes and esoteric artefacts. If you're curious, Stanley's secret basement is hidden behind one of the library's bookshelves. The book entitled De Vermis Mysteriis activates the opening mechanism. See with your own eyes the horrors from beyond the grave that he collected, for the horrors he perpetrated in the factories and in the colonies were destroyed so that no evidence would remain.

Grandfather Stanley had a pair of twins: Thomas and Arthur. Thomas was an alcoholic whoremonger with a taste for human flesh and my father, well, what can I tell you about my father. A staunch anti-communist, champion of the monarchy and conservative arrow, my father designed the propaganda that convinced British youth to get involved in the two world wars, built that undignified prison in Colorado and worked with the CIA on MK-Ultra, mistreating those poor teenagers in Florida.

When you are a child and naive, you tend to glorify the sins of the father, and idolatry blinds the masses. I was made aware of my mistake through my older brother. As the main heir, I thought Edward was taking it seriously to please our father. But I was wrong. Underneath his handsome and hearty facade, lurked a twisted and ruthless man who instigated and supported civil wars and coups in Latin America and Asia for the imperialist cause. It was he who was enraptured by the effects of the atomic bomb on civilian populations and who always advocated servility and starvation as the means to pacify a society as terrifying as ours. It was Edward who arranged for Alexander to travel at the age of sixteen to Indonesia to participate in the government's eugenics programs against the civilian and indigenous population.

I still wonder how a man capable of being so good to his family could finance the execution of such acts against the human species. The last I heard of him, he had founded a pharmaceutical company with an Englishman. My brother always had a very unique worldview: war and compassion, paternalism and authoritarianism. My brother, like my father, wanted to see the dream of a world once again ruled by the élites for the élites, as was the absolutist Stuart monarchy. My father and brother believed that we would return to this old order once the Bolshevik fever had passed.

That's why I left. For this reason, my father expelled me from Ashford Hall and deprived me of inheritance and family. The only thing I retain from my former life as an aristocrat is the name and surname, the accent and manners. I don't miss home, yet I am nostalgic for my lost innocence, when everything was vibrant and pure, devoid of danger and worry.

Tired of suffering, I fled to the Soviet Union alone and without a passport. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I did not die and rebuilt my life in Moscow after the Great Patriotic War. Sometimes I regret my decision; at other times I bask in my natural compassion for the unfortunate souls who were not born like us. There is no place on earth that is free from human shortcomings, but I intend to resist and not falter in my destiny to help others and to let myself be helped.

That is why, Alfred, I wanted to write this letter as a warning about the family you were born into. I last saw Alexander when he was twenty-three years old. So is the father, so will be the son. His determination for the old order is as strong as his father's was.

I know you have a twin sister, Alexia. After this warning, all I can say to you is to love each other so that you will not allow either of you to fall into empty illusions.

I wish you a happy life.

Your great uncle,

George Ashford

III

It was as if she wasn't there; she felt her body, but not her person. Sleepy, paused, on the verge of falling to the floor if it weren't for the fact that she had been tied to the chair by the abdomen with a belt. On her right wrist was an identification bracelet and to her left was a barred window. A table and a vacant chair with rounded edges made up the only furniture in the aseptic room.

The door opened. A dark-haired, bearded man sat in the chair. He carried a folder with him, the contents of which he arranged on the table. The bearded man was dressed in a doctor's coat with no logo or identification. He read each paper carefully.

The bearded man took out a blank sheet of paper from the folder and a pen. He wrote at the top of the sheet.

“I am Aaron Green, clinical psychologist and psychiatrist.” He smiled sympathetically. “Do you mind if we start with some basic questions to get to know each other better?”

Motionless. Aaron jotted down on the sheet of paper.

“If you don't feel like talking, you can nod or shake your head. We can still talk this way. Might you like to?”

Nodded.

“Your name is Alexia Ashford?”

Nodded.

“Alexia is a very beautiful and unusual name. Is it of Greek origin?

Nodded.

“I've read the rest of your names, but I prefer to stick with Alexia. Agreed?”

Nodded.

“You were born on January 24th, 1971?”

Nodded.

“Do you have siblings?”

Nodded.

“An older sibling? Younger?”

Denied.

“Twin?”

Nodded.

“Is it a boy?”

Nodded.

“And what's his name?”

Silence. Aaron consulted his papers.

“Alfred? Like Alfred Hitchcock and Alfred the Great?”

Nodded.

“Alfred is also an interesting name. Germanic. Its literal meaning is ‘advised by the elves’. Curious.”

Silence.

“Your father's name is Alexander Ashford?”

He nodded.

“Like Alexander the Great, I suppose.”

Quiet.

“Do you know where you are? The place, not the room.”

Denied.

“The Margaret Ashford Institute. The social engineering institute your great-grandfather Arthur founded.”

Silence.

“Why are you here?”

Silence.

“I'm going to do one thing. I'm going to try to reconstruct what happened and you nod or deny depending on whether you remember, okay?”

Nodded.

January 12th, 1983. She was working. An alarm suddenly went off. A female voice boomed in the room: ‘The self-destruct system has been activated. Please all personnel must evacuate immediately’. Her first reaction was to run to the laboratory attached to the study room. A disproportionately large ant was fiddling with its antennae on the glass of the tube. She stood in front of the insect, blank. Behind her, monitors displayed the data of an unfinished investigation. She approached the excited ant as the alarm massacred her eardrums. She touched the glass with a trembling hand. She was going to cry.

A door slammed. Alexander. There was blood on his face, but no wounds. He hugged Alexia so tightly that he choked her. He lifted her off the floor and carried her out of the study room. The ant stayed. The research stayed.

Alexander ran as if possessed, and at no point did he let his daughter touch the floor. They ascended to the lobby, where Martin and Jonathan greeted them armed. Alexander left his daughter by the elevator doors and grabbed the shotgun Martin handed him. The three men shouted at each other. Alexander bent down to talk to her. She didn't hear his words, only that his gaze radiated hatred. Martin and Jonathan led the way, Martin with an assault rifle and Jonathan with a shotgun. Alexander protected his daughter in the rear.

They walked out into the hall. Alexander caught her hand and forced her up the stairs at full speed. Her shoulder ached. Martin and Jonathan followed behind them.

Five minutes until detonation.

Alexander shot a man in the head. The impact of the pellets scattered the grey matter across the concrete and steel corridor.

In the helicopter, she looked at her hands. Bloodied.

Blank.

January 17th, 1983. Session with Dr Sarah Charleigh. She hadn't spoken since the incident. She seemed catatonic.

“What is the T-Veronica?”

She had written that name on the board they had given her to communicate with them. The T-Veronica was...

She stuck a pair of sewing scissors into Charleigh's thigh. All the way in. She slapped her across the face. According to Aaron's testimony, she was screaming at the top of her lungs. She broke furniture and various objects. She saw her face in the mirror and smashed her head against the glass. She drew blood on her forehead. Completely out of her mind, she had to be restrained by four. Aaron and his team sedated her and transported her by ambulance to the Institute. She was drugged and strapped to a stretcher, then in a single bedroom and now in an interrogation.

What is the T-Veronica?” Aaron repeated.

Anger. Sadness. Fear. Joy. Surprise. She didn't understand her emotions. She shifted in her seat. In front of her, she had a disproportionately large ant. Her first discovery and research project. But there was something else. She was a queen. A queen that was hers. Alone, confined in a cage and chained to an existence subject to the will of others who did not want to understand her, who considered her a fairground attraction. A queen who had learned to coexist with her affliction and to keep at bay the dilemma of whether or not to continue living; because in that cage she had contemplated herself and had concluded that she hated herself.

She hated herself for trusting her family.

She hated herself for hating her family.

She hated herself for loving her family.

She hated herself for allowing others to impose their dreams on her.

She hated herself for taking on those dreams as her own.

She hated herself for allowing others to laugh at her.

She hated herself for having smiled at those who laughed at her.

She hated herself for her conformity.

She hated herself for her emotional weakness.

She hated herself for loving Alfred.

She hated herself for loving.

She hated herself for not imposing her will.

That was the T-Veronica: her will. Her will be done on earth as it was in heaven. Her will to live and to transform her being into something else.

Into the queen. A nasty queen. That she would not feel that she would not suffer, that she would only be pure volition. To cease to exist to exist again. She no longer wanted to be Alexia.

The T-Veronica disintegrated in the explosion. The queen died. Alexia stayed.

What is the T-Veronica: she went mad because she remembered that she had lost it forever.

Forever.

Aaron finished filling out the sheet.

“Alexia.”

Alexia didn't raise her head. She didn't have the strength.

“We're going to help you. Trust us.”

The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.[2]

IV

Elizabeth hardened her words.

“You're a fool.”

Alexander didn't fight back. He had told her. He couldn't take it any longer and told her. The CODE project: Veronica. The incident at the Antarctic base.

He was depressed and did not know how to carry on his father's and his mother's legacy. Elizabeth insulted him for meddling in this absurd conspiracy. His father approved the project, and he went ahead believing that it would satisfy him; that this was what he had to do as a son. A father-son pact to go straight ahead, as he had always been told to do. Edward had loved his son, but he had always been accustomed to prioritising ends over means. Edward took advantage of Alexander so that he would carry out the wishes of the former one even after the death, as Elizabeth said with the utmost sincerity.

Elizabeth stroked his hand. Alexander began to cry. For decades, he had sought ways to positively influence his son to avoid disasters such as those described. However, fighting Arthur on his home turf was virtually impossible. Taking advantage of the fact that she was a foreigner, a Protestant and a non-conformist, Arthur manipulated the family to cast Elizabeth as an ignorant outsider and to focus Alexander's education on Edward. Elizabeth had to adopt a passive, complementary role to her husband's in order for the marriage to survive and thus retain custody of their son. But the results were nil. Arthur and Edward guided Alexander to be exactly like them, and they succeeded.

The Antarctic base exploded to kill the employees who had rebelled against Alexander's tyranny. The son's excuses for this decision were pitiful and absurd, and he could not fool his mother: he killed them out of hatred.

But she could not loathe her son. She would not do it for her last chance: Alfred and Alexia. He said to Alexander: I forbid Alexia to work until she comes of age, and I forbid you to see your children until I decide. Alexander bowed his head tearfully.

“But I want to see them,” he protested, sobbing.

“Who?”

“My children.”

“You only get one chance,” Elizabeth burst into tears.

They hugged each other.

“You only have one chance...”

[1] Combined Cadet Force (CCF).

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_king_is_dead,_long_live_the_king!

[siena-sevenwits]

My January Reads

The Silver Chair by CS Lewis (classic children's fantasy, reread) ***** - It was so lovely to return to my favourite of all the Chronicles - maybe a tie with Dawn Treader. I love it more than ever.

Reflections on the Psalms by CS Lewis (non-fiction, scriptural) ****1/2 - I was particularly intrigued by Lewis's thoughts on the "cursing psalms," and on the subject of longing for judgment rather than fearing it. My brother and I had a good conversation on whether Lewis's analyses made sense given the fact that all the other senses of Scripture must be ultimately grounded in the presumed intended sense.

Over a Hot Stove by Flo Wadlow (memoir) *** Jolly little reminiscences of a Norfolk girl who was in service at great English houses in the 20's and 30's, and rose to become cook at the tender age of twenty-three. Pleasant reading, not especially informative, but a nice little view into her life.

The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien (classic fantasy, reread) ***** - I had experienced Dragash's narration in little bits before, but I didn't really see his true excellence until I committed to the long haul. Remarkably, he holds a magnifying glass up to Tolkien, not himself, in spite of his manifest talent. And oh, Tolkien, how good, how good it is to read Fellowship through again. I really needed it. I'll be continuing with Two Towers after a little break.

God's Secretaries: The Making of the King James Bible by Adam Nicolson (non-fiction, history) **** - A very interesting attempt to piece together all the information we have about the process of the translation, the men involved, and the theological, political and literary climate of Jacobean England that influenced it.

Too True to Be Good by George Bernard Shaw (classic satirical play) **, or maybe **** as a historical piece. This play was absolutely nuts, especially compared with Shaw's usual style. The um... microbe with measles whom Shaw recommends be played by a transparent blob, sitting next to the bed? The plot is straight up farce, but gets lost quickly in the discussions of relativism, post-war disillusionment, positivity vs. negativity, um, health? etc. I would 100% use this as a reading were I teaching a college course on 20th century history and wanted to give the students a view into the uncertainty of the culture of the 30's, but feel Shaw dropped the ball with what he was trying to do as a play.

January's Scriptures: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Acts

Read-Alouds in Progress: Plutarch's Lives, The Robe, The Wingfeather Saga, The Way of Kings

Books still in progress: Summers at Castle Auburn, Beowulf, Breaking Free from Body Shame, On Stories and Other Essays

[james-vi-stan-blog]

I’m tired of people on Twitter calling King James a groomer like they’ve done research on his history🤦‍♀️

-✨

OK I have been holding myself back from fully saying everything I think about this. I already rambled about it (to you and once to someone else) but do you wanna hear my fully problematic opinion?

This reaction is homophobic and misogynist.

Because if THIS is the period drama that makes these people cry "groomer", if GEORGE VILLIERS the 21-year-old fully age of majority male social climber who wades into the Jacobean court and slugs it out for the top position is the person in history that's making them fret over unfree choice and power dynamics, what the fuck?

THIS is "grooming" and "csa"? THIS? While all around them in this period, you know what age the women—you know, the gender that literally completely loses an independent legal identity and has no rights and is literally referred to as part of a husband's chattels—are getting married off at? Do these people have anything to say about Henrietta Maria (15), Anne of Denmark (15), MARIANA OF AUSTRIA (14), or Mary Princess Royal (10/12)? How many period dramas have these people watched and smiled at the pretty ladies in pretty dresses, and then a young man wheedles his way into the bed of the king and THAT'S what needs discourse about?

"James was taking advantage of George's financial situation" WOMEN. HAD. NO. RIGHTS. Torture is accepted in the courts. The social structure is completely unequal all the way down and this is the understood as the will of God. There are no human rights. The Levellers (30 years from M&G) are going to be largely rejected as ridiculous. Margaret Cavendish is going to be known as "Mad Madge" (50 years from M&G) because she's a woman who has thoughts. John Locke's treatises aren't gonna be published until 70+ years from M&G. The Mansfield Judgment against slavery in England is 150+ years from M&G. And as far as the rights of minors go, R v Hopley was 245 years after M&G. (If you don't know that case don't look it up unless you want nightmares)

Yeah I know this is whataboutism but seriously. SERIOUSLY.

What kind of bizarre fucking fairytales have these people been consuming where the system of monarchy is a fun and friendly egaliatian social environment where there is no coercion and all relationships especially royal ones are certified unproblematic and 100% acceptable according to our modern standards? don't tell me i do actually know, ugh

"This relationship has coercive elements in it!" YEAH. YEAH, IT DOES. That is, we hope, one of the points of the show? The point of telling stories about relationships in the past? To examine how humans, who had emotional needs and hopes, coped under unfree oppressive conditions and were drawn into those same networks of exploitation and abuse? This weird and ugly story about a remarkable relationship and all the horrible people orbiting around it is such a fascinating case study about how real human feelings like affection, loneliness, kinship get refracted through the lens of politics and power, and the result is not pretty. But flattening it down into a tale of inhuman unfeeling Bad People would lose so much potential for exploring how bad and disgusting that SYSTEM is. If it's just Bad People Being Bad To Each Other For No Reason then the historical conditions are absolved and we can file this narrative away into a box that has nothing to do with us Good People and has nothing to say and nothing that could make us reflect about the past and future, and has no purpose other than spectacle and voyeurism and schadenfreude.

Guys, we're in a bad time here in 2024. And I cannot help but think that this kind of reckless leverage of "groomer" against specifically a gay relationship, whether intentionally or not, is part of the ongoing, intentional campaign by international regressive community to dilute the meaning of that word so that it can be deployed against real-life gay and trans people.

Even though I personally don't think it's accurate to say that James groomed George (Mary did if anything, but again, adult man who was not legally under her power), if someone wants to believe that, whatever, we're all interpeting history here. But using that word, in this particular moment, going after this particular show, reviving the bogeyman of the homosexual predator that those of us who are old enough remember being openly used against us and see it getting dusted off to be used again right now, is deeply suspect to me and I just…

Anyway name an unproblematic relationship from the period of coverture.

[archivist-crow]

The Haunted Atlas

Charlton House - Greenwich, London, United Kingdom

51°28′50″N / 0°02′14″E

Former stately home in Greenwich, London, with active haunting phenomena. Now a municipal building, Charlton House has been the site of numerous investigations by paranormal researchers. Some unusual phenomena have been recorded there, including what may be the first "live" apport on film.

Charlton House was built in grand Renaissance style in the early 17th century by Adam Newton, a royal tutor. In 1680, Newton sold the house to Sir William Langhorne, who served as governor of Madras and wanted the house for his retirement. Langhorne lived there until his death in 1715 at age 85. Although he enjoyed women, he never produced an heir. His restless ghost is said to haunt the halls and turn bedroom doorknobs. Another ghost often seen walking on the grounds is that of a servant girl dressed in Jacobean clothing carrying a dead baby in her arms.

Charlton House was turned into a hospital during World War I. One room said by local lore to be the most haunted was left unoccupied until need required that it be opened. The house was severely damaged by bombs during World War II. Repairmen found the mummified body of a child walled in one of the house's chimneys.

The Greenwich Borough Council owns Charlton House, which now serves as a public library and day center. Employees and visitors have reported haunting phenomena, primarily on the third floor, and especially in two rooms known as the Grand Salon and Long Gallery. Other ghosts are an Indian civil servant who likes to pinch the bottoms of women, and phantom rabbits, perhaps due to the fact that a rabbit hutch once was kept in the Long Gallery.

Investigators, including those from the Society for Psychical Research (SPR), the Association for the Scientific Study of Anomalous Phenomena (ASSAP) and the Ghost Club, have held vigils there. Unexplained, explosive noises have been recorded, as well as the sudden movement of objects, which appear to be thrown. Mysterious sighs and vague voices have been heard. Cold spots are felt.

Around the end of 1995, an apport manifested during a taping for a British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) television show on the paranormal. Participating in the vigil was Maurice Grosse, chairman of the Spontaneous Cases Committee of the SPR, and Les Herbert of the ASSAP. They sat in the Long Gallery with BBC assistant producer Amir Jamal. The room was searched, and the lights were turned off for the vigil. Jamal kept a flashlight in one hand and a camcorder in his other hand.

Sometime after 11 P.M., Grosse, who had closed his eyes, heard a police siren outside, which stopped suddenly. Then a tremendous explosion sounded in the room. Everyone leaped up, and the lights were turned on. In the center of the room was a blue and white teacup, broken into seven pieces that were arranged in a small, near circular fashion, as though someone had laid them out.

No one knew where the cup had come from. The Charlton House staff could not identify the china pattern—the house had only all-white teacups. More puzzling, however, was the manner in which the pieces were neatly arranged on the floor. If the cup had fallen from a height or been thrown, fragments would have been scattered about in wide disarray. Grosse and other investigators attempted to recreate the breakage by throwing teacups of similar size and thickness. They either could not break the cups or succeeded only in smashing them to bits.

The explosive sound was captured on the camcorder footage. An analysis by BBC experts determined that the sound was typical of an explosion, not just of a teacup breaking.

No evidence of hoax was found.

On July 30, 1999, during a vigil by members of the Ghost Club, a loud explosive noise was heard, and a test object, a carved wooden mushroom placed in the rooms by investigators, suddenly flew about 10 feet through the air.

Some investigators have held seances in the haunted rooms and said they made contact with various spirits present.

Text from The Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits, Third Edition by Rosemary Ellen Guiley (Checkmark Books - 2007)